


Pressure

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arguing, Choking, Kink Discovery, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:41:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Look,” he says, and sets the jug down. “Would you feel better if you just, y’know…” Stan steps back and lifts his hands like a boxer braced for the first punch. “Let me have one? Or two?”


  “I would feel better if you gave this up,” Fiddleford says.

Set in an AU where Fiddleford’s memory gun didn’t work quite as well as it should’ve, he realized Stan wasn’t Stanford, and, when he tried to confront him about it, Stan managed to rope him into helping him.





	

Fiddleford’s mistake is shoving Stan: Stan is stronger by leagues, and burning up with anger that Fiddleford couldn’t ever hope to touch. Stan swings, _hard,_ and Fiddleford goes down with an anticlimactic thump. But Stan’s anger doesn’t work like that – downing him isn’t enough. Before Stan can consider how _dumb_ this is, he’s on his knees, straddling Fiddleford’s chest, and he latches his hands around Fiddleford’s throat.

“Coward!” he spits. Fiddleford struggles, bucking and thrashing under him, making sick little hiccuping noises. “You’re a _coward!_ He’d help you!” Fiddleford’s face is turning a beet red; a string of drool slides down his chin. He scratches Stan’s hands, then fumbles for Stan’s eyes, clawing at his face. 

It hits Stan, very suddenly, that he is acting like a total fucking maniac. He releases him with a gasp and scrambles away. Fiddleford wheezes and coughs, rolling onto his stomach. The red imprints of Stan’s hands are already bright, a broken ring of color. Stan yanks at his hair and groans. “Oh, fuck,” he says. “Fiddleford, I – I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.” He crawls toward him, desperate to help, to make this right. _Yeah, fuck this one up, too. That’ll help everyone. “_ I didn’t mean…”

He’s shocked that Fiddleford doesn’t shove him away, but he doesn’t, letting Stan rub his back as he sucks in deep breaths. When he finally lifts his head, there are tear tracks on his cheeks. He looks more confused than angry. “You really don’t get it,” he rasps. He spits, then sits up. “I don’t reckon you ever will.”

*

To Stan’s shock, Fiddleford comes back the next day. He looks like shit, his throat a mottled galaxy of bruises, and there is a tired resignation in his face that wasn’t there yesterday. Stan is in the middle of making pancakes and he just stands there, spatula in hand, staring as Fiddleford sets three more books on top of the ever-growing pile on the kitchen table. 

“You’re burnin’ the hotcakes,” Fiddleford says. His voice still sounds like shit, too tight and a little rough. 

“Who cares about the pancakes?” Stan says. “What are you doing here?”

“I told you I’d help you decode this,” Fiddleford snaps. “I ain’t a liar.” He strides over and snatches the spatula from Stan – the pancake is almost a loss, but Fiddleford doesn’t toss it, glaring down at the dark brown mess. “'Sides, I figure you’re pigheaded enough to do this with or without me. Lot easier to stop the apocalypse if someone here actually knows what they’re doin’.” He shoots Stan a resentful glance. “Don’t take it personal,” he says.

Too late for that: Stan sweeps Fiddleford up in a hug so tight that it lifts him off the floor; Fiddleford squeaks and whacks his arm with the spatula. “My man!”

*

Fiddleford’s bruises last; Stan finds himself staring at them, guilt gnawing away at him. They start off a violent black, and slowly turn purple, then yellow and green. They are always in the shape of Stan’s hands. He can see his thumbprint quite clearly right over Fiddleford’s windpipe. Fiddleford never bothers to try and hide them, but he doesn’t use them against Stan, either, never rubs at them or complains. He keeps his nose down, his shoulders up, and helps Stan try to decipher the mess that is Ford’s journal.

The third day after their fight, Stan touches them. He doesn’t mean to, really – he’s refilling Fiddleford’s drink, one hand on the back of Fiddleford’s chair, and he’s not really looking at the glass or the lemonade or the notes sprawled around them. He is staring, instead, at the nape of Fiddleford’s neck, at the first buttons of his spine, where the bruises coalesce into a mess of color and pain. Slowly, without thinking, Stan lays his palm flat against them. 

Fiddleford goes very still. He doesn’t lift his head. He licks his lips and says, tensely, “Something you want?” 

Stan can still see him in his mind’s eye, the ugly color in his face, the helpless way he gaped up at him. The guilt is a punch to the gut, over and over, but what good is that to anyone? How does that help Fiddleford? “Look,” he says, and sets the jug down. “Would you feel better if you just, y’know…” Stan steps back and lifts his hands like a boxer braced for the first punch. “Let me have one? Or two?”

“I would feel better if you gave this up,” Fiddleford says. He rests an elbow on the back of his chair and pins Stan down with a glare. “Besides, scufflin’ like schoolboys never solved nothin’, Stanley.” 

“I mean, that’s debatable, but – but! C’mon, wouldn’t it make you feel better? Even a little? I have it coming, right?” 

“Yes, you do,” Fiddleford says. It’s in the same disdainful way as before, but there is a shifting in his expression, a flexibility that urges Stan on.

“I won’t fight back, I swear. Go ahead!” He sticks his hands behind his back and leans in, offering his jaw. “Give it all you got.” 

Fiddleford stands. Stan’s heart starts to hammer in anticipation – even a scrawny guy like Fiddleford can cause a world of hurt if they have the chance; Stan knows that from experience. He steps into Stan, and keeps walking. Stan backs up, his conviction wavering – what if Fiddleford doesn’t just hit him, what if he grabs a knife, what if – but the questions stop when he hits the cabinets. Fiddleford reaches up and wraps his hands around Stan’s throat, lightly. 

The pressure is so little that Stan’s breath isn’t restricted. He can feel his pulse hammering under Fiddleford’s thumb, and thinks, _he can feel it too._ There is something strange about the tension in the room, an edge to it Stan doesn’t understand. He swallows, and the motion works its way down Fiddleford’s hands. 

“Go ahead,” Stan says, his voice wavering. 

Fiddleford’s hands tighten, but not by much – it’s just enough to make Stan’s breath taut and shallow. He swallows again and makes an aborted sound in the  back of his throat. “I never thought I’d meet someone more frustratin’ than your brother,” he says. “Go figure.” 

Before Stan can react other than to open his mouth, Fiddleford _squeezes,_ his calloused fingers digging into Stan’s neck. Stan can’t gasp, can’t even puff out the air in his lungs; he jerks in surprise and reflexively grabs Fiddleford’s arms, but he doesn’t fight it. _Let him,_ he thinks. _He won’t hurt you._

The blood starts to pound in his head, his chest going taut – he feels simultaneously empty and full, his heartbeat a staccato drum. Stan starts to squirm, his hands fumbling along Fiddleford’s coat. He’s getting dizzy. He’s – able to breathe, suddenly, the pressure relaxing, and Stan sucks in deep, grateful breaths, moaning a little with each one. Fiddleford watches. He traces his thumb down Stan’s windpipe, following the shuddering breaths. 

“Shit,” Stan wheezes. 

Fiddleford’s hands tighten again and Stan hisses. He clutches at the countertop, struggling to stay still. He wants to let Fiddleford do this. The pressure builds in his face faster this time, until he is flushed dark, overheated. He's making undignified whimpering noises as he tries to swallow any air he can. 

Fiddleford’s grip relaxes again. His hands are trembling now, just enough that Stan can feel it against his overheated skin.

“Holy shit,” Stan gasps, coughing and panting hard. “Fidds, holy shit, I – _nng.”_ Again, Fiddleford cuts off his airway. He is still looking at Stan with an unreadable expression, dark and thoughtful and way too calm. Stan bucks against it and grasps Fiddleford’s wrists, teeth bared. He’s so dizzy he thinks he might collapse.

This time, when Fiddleford relaxes his grip, Stan realizes he is hard as a rock, his cock trapped against his jeans. _What the fuck?_ he thinks. Fiddleford lifts one hand away from Stan’s throat and slowly wipes a line of drool away from his mouth, and Stan says, this time, “What the _fuck?”_

Fiddleford blinks, like he’s coming out of a trance. He releases Stan quite suddenly, and Stan nearly collapses, still weak-kneed and stunned. Fiddleford backs away and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances at the fold at Stan’s hip, and his flush goes down his neck, turns his ears a bright pink. 

“That’s,” Fiddleford says, and runs a hand through his hair. “That’s enough for today,” he says. He pivots and hurries to his chair, snatching up his briefcase and coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Stan.” 

He’s gone before Stan can think of a way to stop him, before Stan can even decide if he _wants_ to stop him. The door slams shut. Stan stays where he is, sucking in shaky breaths, his pulse ticking between his legs. Slowly, Stan palms himself through his jeans. He wraps a hand around his own neck, thinking of Fiddleford’s hands, Fiddleford’s steady gaze.

He thinks, well – there's no one to judge a man in an empty house.


End file.
